


Foretasted Fear

by Dawnwind



Category: The Professionals
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-16
Updated: 2011-04-16
Packaged: 2017-10-18 04:42:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/185116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dawnwind/pseuds/Dawnwind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bodie realizes that he's been changed by his partnership with Doyle.<br/>Originally published in Secret Agent Men #12</p>
            </blockquote>





	Foretasted Fear

_I remember when the answers seemed so clear  
We had never lived with doubt or tasted fear.  
It was easy then to tell truth from lies  
Selling out from compromise  
Who to love and who to hate…_  
Shades of Gray by the Monkees

 

Bodie slammed his fist into the man's face, and the violence, the sheer release, felt  
incredibly good. He shoved the prisoner into the outer wall of a pub on the corner of New  
Kent Road and Elephant Road. Anger rippled through him, blanking out all other  
thought. Bodie smiled, all teeth, at the sight of the young punk with blood splattered  
across his face, and went to give him another one right in the nose.

"Bodie!" Murphy said urgently. "Bodie!"

His voice rose the second time, cutting through the haze in Bodie's brain, reminding him  
that they'd come to do a job, not beat the gunrunner's accomplice to a bloody pulp. He  
snarled, the need to pummel and rend so powerful that he was trembling with the rush of  
adrenaline still pumping through his veins.

"Cowley'll want to talk to him," Murphy reminded, stepping forward to snap cuffs on the  
prisoner.

"Not about to tell your lot nuffink! 'E's gone mad, 'e has." The gunrunner spat at Bodie.

Blood-tinged spittle landed on Bodie's jumper, and he swung, only missing the suspect  
because Murphy jerked him back just in time.

"Keep 'im away from me, you hear?" the gunrunner yelled as Murphy propelled him  
away. "I don' care about going to the nick, but keep 'im away from me!"

Bodie braced himself against the brick wall, feeling the anger vibrate against his sternum.  
It had been ten days, and this was just getting worse. He'd already had a dressing down  
from Cowley. Next could be another endless evaluation from Kate Ross before being  
summarily drummed out of CI5, all because he couldn't keep his emotions in check.

"Oi," Murphy called from the van. "Got the prat in the back. You coming?"

Drawing in a breath that managed to force down his black fury enough to speak, Bodie  
shook his head. "I'll…I need to get out of this. Change me clothes."

Murphy frowned, but his face softened. "You going to visit Doyle?"

"What makes you think that?" Bodie pressed his fingers into the rough brick, welcoming  
the sharp sting of ripped skin.

"Takes the madness out of you," he said quietly. "No one else, mate. Go over there and –"  
Murphy shrugged, friendship and forgiveness there for all to see. "I've got this in hand.  
Doyle's getting bored laid up there in hospital. He's been almost as irritating as you have,  
lately."

A little humour seeped under Bodie's mood. "Our Doyle, irritating? I could never reach  
his level, on my worst day. Cool and suave, that's me." No longer a true assessment, by  
any stretch of the imagination. He was no longer the calm bloke he'd claimed to be when  
he first met his partner. Irrevocably changed forever.

Murphy gave a brusque laugh. "You just go on believing that one, Bodie my son. And if  
you need anyone else to talk to?"

"I know where you live. But I expect that you're in for a busy afternoon getting the  
location of the cache out of that one." Bodie gestured at the van, glad that he wasn't going  
to be cooped up in the CI5 basement interrogation room with the gunrunner. He had no  
patience for the slow, intense drudgery of questioning a suspect. Having to keep the lid  
on his broiling anger without erupting would put a strain on his nerves. Better to sit this  
one out than be on the wrong end of disciplinary proceedings. "I've got the Capri. I'll  
check in with his lordship in a few hours."

"Might get some ice on that hand whilst you're at it," Murphy said over his shoulder.

Bodie waited until the van rumbled off into London traffic, leaning against the pub wall.  
The lure of a pint, perhaps more than one, enough to get the thoughts out of his head even  
for a little while, was almost overwhelming. He could taste the bitter flavour of a dark ale  
on his tongue, a near match to the sharp tang that had persisted in the back of his throat  
since the day… He shook his head, but the image that was burned in his brain remained;  
Doyle bleeding out on the rug of his flat, shot twice, dying with every second.

Ale be damned, the need to see Doyle took precedence. He looked down at his  
besmirched jumper with a grimace. Damned gunrunner. Clenching his skinned knuckles,  
Bodie headed for the Capri parked just past the pub. There was an old cardigan in the  
boot, just the thing to cover the mess on his jumper. In this weather, with Christmas  
approaching, Doyle would never question why he was wearing so many layers.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Afternoon, Sister," Bodie greeted the head nurse on Doyle's ward with a courtly bow  
that sent the junior nurses into giggles.

The stately older woman with a starched muffin cap perched on top of a height defying  
beehive hairdo looked down her nose at him, but there was a twinkle of amusement in her  
dark eyes. "Mr. Bodie, in the name of the wee man, what have you been doing?" Her  
brogue was thicker than Cowley's. "Och, you look like you've been tangling with a wild  
beastie or two."

"And I dressed up specially for you, my lady." Bodie played the insulted suitor to the hilt,  
laying a palm flat to his chest in mock distress. Acting the fool kept him from wallowing  
in the dark recesses of his mind. "What can I do to win back your honour?"

"Come with me into the examination room." She looked about ready to take him by the  
ear the way his old Nan used to, but instead beckoned him into a small room across from  
the nurses' desk. "Can't have our patients seein' you in such a state. Particularly when  
your friend is finally doing better."

"Doyle's improved?" Bodie asked hopefully.

"Breathing well, we've turned down his oxygen nearly to room air and he's eaten a wee  
bit of his lunch." She nodded emphatically, pointing at the exam table. "What do you  
have to say for yourself?"

"It's the job," Bodie answered darkly when she probed the swollen knuckles on his right  
hand.

"Aye, could do with an x-ray, unless I miss my guess." Anna Mackenzie clicked her  
tongue. "Could be broken."

"It isn't." He flexed his fingers, which hurt, but he'd broken his whole hand once. This felt  
nothing like that. "Just pulled a couple of tendons. Can I go see my friend now?"

She looked at him steadily, those dark eyes assessing him. Not his worth, but his  
emotional stability. In the ten days since Doyle was shot, Mrs. Mackenzie had been a  
quiet, tranquil presence when everything else was going horribly wrong. She'd let Bodie  
in after hours, against policy, just so he could see for himself that Doyle was still alive,  
and had even let him smuggle in a jar of marmite. Doyle had only eaten one bite of the  
comfort food on a square of toast, but Bodie's effort had earned him a smile from his  
friend. Bodie sometimes thought that Mrs. Mackenzie's abilities lay not simply in nursing  
the patient, but also in her care of the friends and family. She knew just when to cut a  
visit short before tiring the convalescent and when to bar visitors all together, just on a  
quick once-over with those intelligent eyes.

She pursed her lips and gave a nod. "This calls for more than a plaster, I'll say that  
much." Mrs. Mackenzie gathered several supplies and brought them back to the table  
while Bodie experimented with turning his wrist. No pain there. He rippled his fingers  
one way and then back again, a move he'd learned long ago when he thought it might be  
fun learn a few magician's tricks. Despite being quite nimble-fingered, he'd never  
mastered even the simple trick of hiding a shilling under his palm. Give him a lock pick  
though, and he could open a door in under thirty seconds. Perhaps not today, because his  
index finger and third finger were as thick and round as a couple of sausages, with just  
enough pain that he wasn't about to repeat the magician's manoeuvre again any time soon.

"Stop that unless you're planning to produce a sixpence from behind my ear," Mrs.  
Mackenzie said with a wry expression. "My nephew's quite taken with all that illusion  
silliness. Hold still." She braced his two fingers with little metal cots and wrapped  
copious amounts of gauze around them until he appeared to be giving the world a very  
raunchy gesture. She swabbed ointment over his knuckles and applied a large adhesive  
bandage over the top with the satisfied air of someone doing a job worth doing. "Wash  
your face and comb your hair, and you'll be presentable."

"I can't bend me fingers like this!" Bodie protested.

"As it should be. You go brawling all over London like a bullyboy and you'll get your  
comeuppance."

"I told you, it's my job." Bodie could hear the whine in his voice. She really was just like  
his Nan.

"The same job that got him shot twice?" she asked, neatly stowing away her supplies in  
their niches. Everything neat and tidy, not at all like Bodie's life.

"It's what we do." He felt a need to defend, to protect. That's what she was probably  
doing, too, but Doyle was his. Always had been, always would be.

"And you're happy with that?" She still didn't look at him, making a notation on a  
clipboard, probably ordering more splints and other bandage stock.

He could feel the anger curling up his spine again. Who was she to ask him that? As if  
he'd had one single thing to do with Doyle getting shot. "Lady, you listen to me…!"

"Seems to me that two friends, such as yourselves, don't listen to each other very well,"  
Mrs. Mackenzie continued. "You're so angry, you can't let anyone else in."

Her assessment took the wind right out of him. His anger dwindled until it was a small  
thing that he could force back down again. It wasn't gone; he could still feel the swirling,  
great vortex that threatened to drag him under when he least expected. He'd grown weary  
of the unprovoked attacks—launching himself at others with little provocation, all  
because he couldn't control this violence within.

"That night you brought in the lass, the Chinese girl who shot your friend?"

"She wasn't Chinese." Why he felt it important to correct her baffled him. What had  
MayLi been to him? A means to an end. She'd shot Doyle, and then Bodie had gone after  
her with single-minded intent. Only to have her be killed and dumped like so much  
rubbish, unwanted by anyone, least of all her own embassy. An embarrassment.

Which is what he'd been lately. He hadn't truly brought anyone to justice for Doyle's  
shooting. He'd been more like clean-up crew, mopping up the mess afterwards and  
sweeping it under the rug. Nothing resolved. Nothing finalized. CI5 could close the books  
on the murder attempt because the killer was dead. That there had been a kind of eye for  
an eye retaliation hadn't done Doyle a bit of good, nor made Bodie feel…what? Fulfilled?  
Complete? Satisfied?

Nothing did these days. He pushed against a brick wall over and over, waiting for  
something different. Something better to happen that would lift the black gloom from  
over his head.

"That night, coming in with the young Oriental woman in the ambulance—your second  
ride in so many days, you were so worried about your Doyle, but you didn't want it to  
show." Mrs. Mackenzie tucked her hands into the pockets of her apron, regarding him as  
if she could examine his innermost thoughts and pull them out for a good analysis under a  
microscope. "You harassed the trauma department staff as if they could—" She gave a  
dry smile and raised her right hand, mimicking the rippling finger motion he'd done,  
flipping her palm around as if to produce something astounding. "Pull off a magic trick  
and save the lass's life while your friend's was still hanging in the balance."

"What do you know about me?" he countered gruffly, feeling exposed.

"Only what I've seen—and that's a man who tries very, very hard to keep his emotions  
bottled up to the point that he's boiling over when he arrives here."

Her pronunciation of very came out 'verra', which amused him and allowed him to  
pretend he didn't quite hear all of what she had said. A verra apt description of him; it hit  
too close to home for comfort.

"You studying to be a psychologist in your off-duty hours?" he asked cynically.

"It's part of my job." The right corner of her mouth lifted just enough to brighten her  
eyes. She trusted him enough to tease him.

If only he trusted himself that easily. He was all edges and angles, alternating aggression  
and wariness. "You do it well," he said finally. "Wish you could say the same thing  
about me."

"Oh, aye." She opened the door, releasing him. "I think you are good at your job. England  
owes a great deal to CI5. But that same work has sunk its talons in you, bleeding you dry,  
sucking the marrow from your bones. Is it good for you, lad?"

"To quote the bard, Sister," Bodie said with as much humour as he could afford. "There's  
the rub."

"Knowing the classics is always such a comfort," she replied mildly, glancing around the  
corridor at the nurses going about their own jobs. Her demeanour changed back to that of  
the head nurse, assessing what needed to be done. "Nurse Hawkins, have you checked on  
the transfusion that Dr. Marlowe wanted for the patient in number thirty-seven? And  
Nurse Grassley, see to the patient in room thirty-three. Her call light has been blinking  
for ten minutes now."

Bodie walked toward Doyle's room, surprised that he had an odd sort of calm. It was  
more like a covering for the rough anger that had kept him in a hyper-vigilant state in the  
last ten days, but he'd accept whatever he could get. Generally, he could pull off a  
modicum of relaxation when he was visiting Doyle, like donning a costume at a  
masquerade, because only then was he sure that his partner had survived. But somehow,  
Anna Mackenzie had soothed the seething waters while posing disturbing questions at the  
same time. He wasn't sure exactly how she'd managed such a feat. Quite possibly, she  
possessed a few magician's tricks up the ruffled sleeves of her nursing uniform.

He stopped at the door, looking in at the lone bed. Doyle had a private room, courtesy of  
CI5. This was not their usual way of dealing with an injured agent, but right now the  
political climate was precarious. CI5 needed to look good—and treating one of their top  
agents to the finest medical treatment was more about looking good than looking after an  
employee.

Cowley cared, in his own way, Bodie was sure of that. He'd seen the concern on his  
superior's face in those tense hours and days after the shooting. But the politicos who  
held the clearance for CI5 were another matter—and they weren't about to endanger their  
political ties with any other countries after the fiasco with Lin Fo. Bodie could just  
imagine the outcry in Parliament these days. CI5 couldn't even save one political ally—  
much less their own agent. What good were they? Thwarted by a tiny girl with revenge  
on the brain. So much better that she'd died, and the bigwigs could sweep the whole  
situation under the carpet like yesterday's dust.

For once, he was almost afraid to walk in. Doyle had been drugged into a blissful vacant  
state for nearly ten days. He'd existed, alive and recovering, in a healing sleep most of the  
time. The moments when he'd been able to surface from his morphine induced dreams  
had been few and far between. He'd ask a few questions about the shooting, those blue-  
green eyes burning briefly, wanting a full account. Diverting him had been child's play,  
and it had been easy to lull him back to sleep without much confession on Bodie's part.  
Now would be different. Doyle's wits would be returning, and with them, his ability to  
see right inside Bodie and draw out whatever demons lurked.

Bodie pressed his bandaged hand against the wall, welcoming the flare of pain from the  
tips of his fingers down to the wrist. There was such vulnerability here—on both sides.  
Doyle was still so fragile—patched together with silk thread and adhesive. And Bodie felt  
like his whole existence was a lie. He hadn't even suspected the threat to Doyle, and then  
had failed to protect his own against attack. All he needed was to be exposed by his  
partner—and conversely, that was all he wanted out of life. To be seen for who he really  
was—and who he really loved.

"Hey?" Doyle raised his head off the pillow.

The tiny movement was so much more than he'd been able to do a few days before, the  
last time Bodie had visited. For all his yearnings to be near Doyle, he couldn't bear seeing  
his partner laid low. Truth be told, Bodie had stayed away because he was afraid. Doyle  
calmed his very soul, and scared him out of his wits.

"Sunshine," Bodie said, feigning a lightness that he didn't feel. "Unlike the Greeks, I don't  
come bearing gifts."

Doyle studied him, even more intently than Mrs. Mackenzie had, then apparently decided  
to keep the conversation at surface value for a while longer. "Had enough Greeks lately."  
He raised the hand that did not sport an IV drip and waved it at the flowers and get well  
cards amassed in the room. "Although, the Cow did bring by his own medicine to lift my  
spirits."

"Oh, very nice." Bodie felt himself reeled in to Doyle as if there were an invisible rope  
around his middle and Doyle held the other end. He picked up the small bottle of scotch;  
a brand he recognized, but not one that cost an inordinate amount, and watched the  
caramel coloured liquid slosh from side to side. "Care if I have a wee dram?" He tried his  
best Cowley speak, which came out sounding much more like Mrs. Mackenzie than he'd  
intended.

"Better you than me, mate." Doyle made a face and carefully inched his way more solidly  
into a sitting position.

"Not up for a pub crawl yet?" Bodie searched around for a water glass to use and finally  
located one half hidden under the broad leaf of a Dieffenbachia. The unwieldy bandage  
on his right hand made twisting open the seal a great deal of work and he used the  
activity to ignore Doyle. He poured out two fingers of scotch, sniffing the distinctive  
aroma like an addict needing a fix. All the while, he could feel Doyle watching and  
waiting.

"Think I'll stick to beef broth and marmite for a while longer," Doyle said carefully. He  
twitched the thin blanket on the bed with minor irritation as if nothing was quite to his  
liking.

Bodie knew the feeling. He swallowed the scotch in one go, letting the smooth heat scald  
his throat, burning a path to his belly. Dutch courage. And he needed so much more of it,  
but couldn't risk getting drunk in front of Doyle. This was supposed to be his haven, the  
one place where he could relax and be safe.

Except he felt anything but safe with Doyle looking at him from under hooded lids.

"Mrs. Mackenzie says you've improved," Bodie said inanely. The scotch had loosened his  
tongue.

"Yeah," Doyle drawled, very the Birmingham street lad all of a sudden.

Time quivered on the end of a pin; no past, no present. They could have been anyone,  
anywhere. Bodie saw where he had come from—running away when he was just a slip of  
a boy, all the way to Africa to prove his worth. Into the military, all right and proper, and  
then onto CI5. And Doyle, the kid so badly beaten that his right cheekbone had to be  
replaced, gone on to be a copper, rising up in the ranks to CI5. Had all that led up to this  
moment been preordained? Was it written in some book that Bodie and Doyle should  
meet, become partners and friends, all to end with Bodie unable to save his Raymond in  
time? What was the point of that?

"I'm not some sodding princess who needed rescuing, Bodie," Doyle said as if he'd  
divined Bodie's thoughts.

"Never, ever thought you were a princess," Bodie sneered, managing to keep the shock  
off his face. "All that Irish blood in you. The Windsors would never have let you over the  
moat into the palace."

"Been Doyles in England since…" Doyle coughed, harsh and ragged, his face going  
white with the strain.

Bodie would have gone to his aid, would have lent a hand, but he knew Doyle too well.  
Proud, irritating bastard. He didn't want anyone to save him. What he needed was a  
friend. He needed Bodie.

As friend, partner—or maybe something even more. Bodie stayed alert, ready to bring in  
the nurse. Doyle clamped one hand around Bodie's wrist, preventing him from using the  
call button.

"I'll take that scotch now," he rasped.

"You'll sick it all up."

"You didn't," Doyle challenged, and there was a fire in his eyes. He'd taken up the  
gauntlet and was ready for a fight. This was where Bodie either sank to one knee in  
surrender or shouldered his musket in battle.

"Your choice, my son," Bodie said, tipping the bottle over the glass he'd just drained.

"It was, Bodie. You get that, don't you?"

The cryptic question lay between them in no man's land. Bodie knew exactly what he  
meant, and it hurt. Doyle was absolving him of any responsibility when he felt so damned  
culpable.

"We didn't see any danger," Doyle said reasonably, small coughs like after-shocks  
rumbling in his chest. "No sign that she'd come after me. That's the point, innit? You  
didn't expect it—but I didn't either."

"No," Bodie conceded, watching his own standard go down into the mud. Except, his  
whole being was lightened after the effort of carrying such guilt around. In the act of  
handing over the glass of scotch, he bent his arm and quickly drained the contents.

"Hey!" Doyle protested with a hint of his old amusement despite the slight wheeze in his  
breathing. "Taking drink from an invalid, that is."

"Ribena for you, peasant." Bodie took a deep, lingering breath in the aftermath of all that  
alcohol. The tightness in his belly was gone. "Vitamins, whatever else is in there."

"I don't like blackcurrant," Doyle said peevishly, eyeing the bottle of scotch with  
resignation.

"Shall I call for the nurse to bring the tea trolley around?" Bodie goaded, feeling  
altogether on firmer ground. Maybe he could hide behind the banter as they'd always  
done.

"Might be best, under the circumstances," Doyle answered just as Mrs. Mackenzie  
bustled in to record temperature, heart rate and blood pressure. With that diversion, Bodie  
scooted out to find a cup with his partner's name on it.

There was an electric kettle in the visitor's room that was hot to the touch. How long the  
water had been sitting there was unclear, but if it had been boiling for a while, it was  
certainly sterile enough to be drunk by a convalescing Doyle. Bodie selected a Tetley tea  
bag, his nerves ricocheting wildly between the false courage provided by the scotch and  
leftover blame. He and Doyle could move forward—that was certain. But what exactly  
did he want to happen beyond the doors of the hospital?

Was CI5 still in their futures? Or something different? Was it worth pursuing?

"When can I have this tube out?" Doyle groused just as Bodie came back in with teacup  
in hand. "Feels like a bloody great garden hose." He poked at the oxygen cannula in his  
nose.

"You'll have to take that up with your doctor, laddie." Mrs. Mackenzie folded her hands  
over her pleasantly padded middle, an improbable Scottish Buddha. "However, I can be  
persuaded to advance your diet to regular, if you've a mind. Some lovely bubble and  
squeak on the menu tonight."

"No fish and chips?" Bodie put the cup into Doyle's hand and felt a shock of electricity  
run across his palm when Doyle curved his fingers around the handle. It took his breath  
away.

"Did you break your fingers?" Doyle asked sharply.

"No fried foods in this hospital," Mrs. Mackenzie said. "I'll order up a tray for you, Mr.  
Doyle." She bustled out.

"See, just what you need, lots of vitamins," Bodie chimed in, hoping to steer Doyle away  
from the subject of his bandaged fingers.

"Cooked right out, and the cabbage'll be all mush," Doyle groused, sipping at his tea with  
a grumpy expression. He looked so thoroughly like his usual self that Bodie could almost  
forget they were lingering in a hospital room instead of the Capri on an assignment. "And  
you've not answered my question. I've known you to bend your knee, and bend your wrist  
on occasion, but rarely bend your finger…"

"Get stuffed," Bodie said irritably. "Smacked a gunrunner in the face, didn't I?"

"For business or pleasure?"

Bodie surprised himself, and laughed. Doyle always did have that effect on him. "Bit of  
both actually." He eyed the bottle of scotch. One more drink might just put him right over  
the edge and he needed to keep at least some of his wits about him. "Murph took him off  
to be interrogated. All jammy fun."

"Get the guns?" Doyle asked. There was colour high on his cheeks and his changeable  
eyes were iridescent green with the intense interest Doyle only got when he wanted in on  
an arrest. Bodie almost laughed again. The one time he was completely uninterested in  
the affairs of CI5, and Doyle was about ready to leap out of bed and go after the  
criminals. "Was it Rotmensen? Word was that he was accumulating a cache of guns in  
east London."

"Show-off," Bodie said, impressed in spite of himself. Despite gunshot, drugs, and pain,  
Doyle still managed to know almost as much about the current op as he did. "The idiot  
we nicked wasn't inclined to give his rank and file but we've got him right enough, and  
linked him to Rotmensen through his mate Harroway."

"Yeah." Doyle nodded. "Might go talk to Mogs. She's usually to be found in that pub on  
the corner of New Kent Road."

He paused for a moment as if gathering strength to finish his sentence, and Bodie felt  
such despair. Nothing had been right since Doyle was shot—nothing fit the way they did  
just now, talking over a case. He'd lurched between anger and depression without Doyle  
to ground him. Doyle, of all people—one of the most mercurial men Bodie had ever met.  
Bodie had once advised Doyle to stay cool and focused like himself; not to let the  
vagaries of life wind him up—when he was the one who could have benefited from his  
own advice.

"Mogs and Harroway were keeping house there for a time," Doyle finished, out of breath.  
The teacup in his hands wobbled a bit. Bodie caught the cup before tea dribbled all over  
the blankets, and helped guide it to Doyle's mouth. Doyle drank his fill and then Bodie  
finished off the dregs.

"Should have put in more milk." He stared down at the scattered tea leaves in the bottom  
of the cup; the tea bag must have ripped open. Was it possible to tell his fortune in the  
random swirls and eddies? He was daft even thinking about any sort of future with Doyle  
still touch and go. "That place is right near where we grabbed the gunrunner this  
morning, might be more to that than meets the eye. I'll collect Murphy and go by the  
pub—what's it called?" He ought to know. He'd just been down that way.

"Elephant's Trunk," Doyle supplied, the corner of his mouth lifted in a weary grin.

"Thanks—Murphy and me will go over later. Who knows, might be able to pick up a gun  
moll and put back an ale at the same time." The idea of doing that with anyone but Doyle  
hurt.

"Next time," Doyle said, as if he'd once again read his partner's mind.

"You reckon?" Bodie felt such anguish, and yet relief, that Doyle could imagine a next  
time. "Here I was thinking you'd get out of hospital, take a holiday at the seaside, and  
forget all about us working stiffs."

"You will natter on." Doyle looked up at him. Bodie let himself get reeled in, like a fish  
on a line. He could feel the hook piercing his breastbone, making it almost impossible to  
breathe. Those eyes, that ruined angel's face. He could not lose this man.

"You'll prang the Capri in no time without me there to keep your eyes on the road,"  
Doyle said, the snarky attitude completely at odds with the exhaustion weighing down his  
eyelids.

Bodie let himself linger on his partner's long eyelashes for just a moment before  
breathing against the ache in his chest. He set the forgotten teacup down next to the  
scotch.

"And there'll always be more bloody nobs to arrest—it's what keeps our pay cheques  
coming," Doyle continued, a strange wistfulness in his voice.

"I'd best be going." Bodie swallowed hard enough to expel the fish hook holding him in  
place. It hurt to leave and it hurt to stay. So close, yet without any possible antidote for  
the malady that plagued him. "You're knackered, and I don't want that Mrs. Mackenzie to  
get her claws into me. If she ever wants to switch careers, Cowley could use her as an  
enforcer."

"Wait."

"Ray." Bodie inhaled, looking down at his bandaged hand. He'd managed to extricate  
himself from Doyle once again; turning back would be agony. He and Doyle were not on  
the same page. Hell, they were bloody well reading different books. His was some  
damned romantic bodice ripper with himself cast as the irrational hero, and Doyle  
apparently was still deep in some John Le Carre thriller, going after the international  
gunrunners. With every step, Bodie could feel the anger reasserting itself in his  
breastbone. He wanted to thrash some random bloke and alternately, scoop Doyle up out  
of his bed and kiss him hard.

"I'm late for a briefing with Father," Bodie snapped when Doyle didn't say anything else.

"Did you ever realize something so startling, so completely different than what you'd ever  
believed that you wanted to…" Doyle trailed off, his voice barely above a whisper.

Something sharp burrowed deep into Bodie's heart, sparking a raw pain. He turned back  
to see Doyle gazing steadily at him. "I don't know what you're on about," Bodie  
managed, even though he had such a foolish hope.

"I think about you when you're not here," Doyle said simply. He gathered himself,  
obviously nearly running on empty. But that indomitable spirit was unquenchable. Ray  
Doyle would go over a cliff if it got him what he was after—and get him killed in the  
process. Which was just one of the many reasons Bodie loved the infuriating,  
unpredictable man with all his heart.

And why he'd never say so unless pushed off that very same cliff.

"And then you give me aggro when you visit, because you're such a…" Doyle winced,  
gritting his teeth against unconcealed pain, "…blind, obstinate fool who can't see what's  
right in front of him."

"Ray…" Bodie was rooted to the spot, ready to pelt down the hall for Mrs. Mackenzie if  
Doyle got any paler. Those bright eyes were what held him in place, those eyes, and that  
full bottom lip that implored Bodie to understand.

"Took me gettin' shot to comprehend it all, so I can see why…" Doyle panted, sweat  
glistening on his brow, dampening his curls.

"What the bloody hell are you going on about?" Bodie demanded, his own anger flaring  
fast and hot, fanned by the proximity to Doyle. "Because you getting shot didn't make me  
comprehend one fucking thing except fear—pure, unadulterated fear, like some great  
animal shredding my insides. Couldn't eat, couldn't sleep—"

"Felt like you'd been gob-smacked?" Doyle asked faintly.

"What the hell do you know about it?" Bodie shouted, knowing he should lower his  
voice. Knowing he shouldn't rail against Doyle, of all people, who was a champion at  
tilting against windmills. "You were lying there, fucking dying…" He felt tears pricking  
his eyes, which wouldn't do. Not at all. "And the phone wouldn't work, and I had to…"  
His throat was spasming off and the damned tears were blurring his vision just when he  
needed to see Doyle the most. Needed to see him alive—not the nightmare vision that  
plagued him every night-- his partner lying on the carpet, white as death. "I had to leave  
you."

"I knew you'd come back." Doyle really shouldn't be talking. His voice was weighed  
down with fatigue. "I saw you come in, and knew…love."

"What?" Bodie asked stupidly, blinking. If this really were a cheap romance novel,  
rainbows and doves would have appeared above Doyle's head with some brilliant light  
haloing his curls. Bodie took a sharp breath in, to say something, anything, to respond to  
Doyle's earth-shattering pronouncement.

And then the door swung open, Mrs. Mackenzie barreling through like a battleship  
heading out to war. "Mr. Bodie!" she said with imperious authority. "This is a hospital,  
and you'll do well to keep your voice down or we shall have to ask you to leave."

"I apologise, Sister," Bodie said humbly, giggles suddenly gathering inside him as if he'd  
drunk too much champagne. Scotch didn't usually have that effect on him. "Won't happen  
again. We'll be quiet as a couple of church mice."

"See that you are." She shook a strong forefinger at him, once again reminding him of his  
Nan. His father's mother would always scold him for whatever mischief he'd been up to  
and then soften the punishment with a slice of Dundee cake.

Mrs. Mackenzie sized Bodie up and nodded just once, done with him. She bustled over to  
the bed, clucking her tongue, fluffing Doyle's pillow and checking the IV drip all at the  
same time. "How are you, my dear? Look all done in, and it's not half past four yet. Your  
dinner tray's on the way, that'll fill you up, and you'll be ready for a kip after." She didn't  
give Doyle a moment to respond, talking at a clip that would leave anyone else  
breathless. "A dose of morphine would help ease the way, I'd expect, hmm?"

Doyle's eyebrows slid downwards, two storm clouds just before a bellow of thunder, but  
he apparently could keep a civil tongue in his head when necessary. "I'll take the  
morphine, yeah," he said tightly, which surprised Bodie. Doyle really must be feeling bad  
if he admitted to needing narcotics. Doyle endured Mrs. Mackenzie's efficient  
examination with a set jaw, waiting until she left the room to look over at Bodie.

Bodie held the laughter in as long as he could. It exploded out of him with a great  
guffaw; he laughed until his sides ached. Even after he'd collapsed onto the edge of the  
bed, little chuckles kept surfacing when he least expected them.

"What the hell are you laughing about?" Doyle asked murderously. He crossed his arms  
over his chest, glaring at Bodie.

"Us, mate. A couple of barmy berks." Bodie grinned at his partner, ridiculously happy.  
Because without actually saying so specifically, Doyle had told him exactly what he was  
hoping to hear. That Doyle loved him. "Alliteration, see? Barmy berks. Always was good  
with words, which you are not, my son. You couldn't explain your way out of a paper  
bag."

"Speaking of berks," Doyle said, but his expression had softened, the lines around his  
eyes crinkling. A smile was lurking, he just wasn't letting it out yet. "You never let me  
finish what I was trying to say…"

"Too bad it's not Spring," Bodie said, waving a hand at the gloomy December weather.  
"We could blame this all on spring fever."

"Of all the things on my medical chart, spring fever isn't one of them." Doyle coughed,  
raw and tight, and glanced at the Scotch. "My excuse is narcotics and lots of them. On  
your end, a more accurate diagnosis might be that you're drunk."

"Not enough Scotch in the world, mate. Drunk on love." Bodie reached out for Doyle  
cautiously. Even in love, Doyle would probably be as prickly as a field full of gorse.  
Doyle exhaled, as if shedding his old conventions about romance, and let his smile out,  
sweet and full of wonder. Bodie ran the back of his fingers down Doyle's damaged cheek.  
"Won't ever need to go to AA for this."

"Dangerous all the same," Doyle said, turning his head just enough to brush his lips over  
Bodie's knuckles.

"I eat danger like Weetabix, for breakfast," Bodie scoffed. Still, he knew what Doyle  
meant. CI5 had regulations prohibiting agents from dating, not to mention the more real  
prejudice against two male partners in a relationship. It wasn't just a simple matter of  
giving in to love, it was looking out for each other. Carrying Doyle in his heart every  
second and knowing that Doyle did the same. Love was being there for each other, and  
wanting no one else.

What was abundantly clear was that they'd been in love since that very first day.

"You eat Bath buns and sausage rolls for breakfast," Doyle snarked.

Bodie had the sudden compulsion to kiss that smirk off his face. The idea scared him and  
yet filled him with intense desire. "See how well you know me? We're a match made in  
heaven." He really was falling off the deep end like some besotted Jane Austen character.

"Match made by Cowley." Doyle smiled indulgently, fiddling with the oxygen cannula in  
his nose as if it still bothered him. His breathing was very deliberate; long, slow, clearly  
painful inhalations that blanched his cheeks on the way out. "This could be worse than an  
Operation Susie. Could blow up in our faces if word gets out."

"Are you always going to be so negative?" Bodie asked, indulging in another caress of  
Doyle's face, tracing the shape of his mouth in anticipation of kissing those lips.

"It's who I am." Doyle caught his hand and tugged at him. There was surprising strength  
in his grip, even with the drip taped to the back of his wrist. Bodie wouldn't have resisted  
in any case. He surrendered to the inevitable kiss without a glance to see whether Mrs.  
Mackenzie was on the way back with the morphine.

"Wouldn't have it any other way, Goldilocks," Bodie said against Doyle's mouth,  
savouring their first kiss. It would have to last them for a while—Doyle wasn't up to  
anything more strenuous. In fact that one kiss had left him breathless, and not in a good  
way. Bodie could feel the exaggerated rise and fall of his chest against his own, and drew  
back, watching Doyle carefully in case he needed to run for a nurse.

"Leave off. I'm fine," Doyle rasped, irritably. He didn't let go of Bodie's hand, however,  
which gave promise of more kisses once he was out of hospital.

"I've had the fear of nearly losing you," Bodie said, his recent nightmares shrinking with  
proof of Doyle's ongoing recovery. "I just want to know the joy of waking up to you  
every morning."

"Every morning?" Doyle countered when he'd gotten back his wind, a teasing light in his  
eyes. "You'll actually get up at the crack of dawn to go running with me?"

"As long as you make me a coffee."

"Ah, that's it then." Doyle tried laughing, which came out half way between a chuckle  
and a grunt of pain. "You only want me for my cooking."

"Perish the thought. Can't stand all that rabbit food you eat. It's your body." Bodie trailed  
his fingers down Doyle's throat, stopping just above the bandages on his chest. "Always  
did have a thing for sutures."

"You are mental." Doyle's eyes said otherwise.

Their second kiss left Bodie breathless.

FIN


End file.
